


prodigal son

by cosmicaeronaut



Series: No J-Day, or; How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Embrace Cringe [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Deviation, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, father son feelings, in a robot way, my trademark style of brainweird in italics, no jday AU, warnings for suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:21:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26981311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmicaeronaut/pseuds/cosmicaeronaut
Summary: "You were programmed to take orders! For God's sake, doesn't that mean you have to listen to me?""You are not my master, Lieutenant - much less myfather."Connor and Hank have an argument, and Connor doesn't take it well.
Relationships: Hank Anderson & Connor
Series: No J-Day, or; How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Embrace Cringe [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1970131
Comments: 8
Kudos: 66





	prodigal son

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a part of a wider AU I've been working on for years now. All you need to know is that Cyberlife has a much wider reach than you'd think, and there's a hit out on Hank and Connor for what they did to destroy Cyberlife's image. They escaped to LA and are living under witness protection, sort of. It'll make enough sense. This fic is kinda incomplete but I like it that way -- I'm hoping to post more and flesh out this AU if college doesn't eat up all of my time.

There was a certain irony to the flask Connor held in his hand.

He had found it in his jacket pocket-- Hank's jacket pocket, the coat he had grabbed on his way out the door, the one that was big and warm and smelled like shitty aftershave they still couldn't really afford but that Connor allowed on the shopping list anyway. He must have missed the flask when doing his contraband sweep last week.

Something about the unassuming container made him understand. If he could dull his problems by drinking foul, deadly liquid, he probably would too. Unfortunately, there wasn't anything that could get an Android drunk, except for maybe a very large magnet.

He tried a swig as he looked out on the LA skyline, the city off the hill glowing in the night like a lake of fireflies. His program returned statistics -- 140 proof, three fingers left in the flask, slightly soured by time. He didn't care about the numbers, not really. He wanted the feeling.

Maybe he could hack his program to make him drunk. If not drunk, foggy; anything to dull the pain he felt in his chest. The pain that didn't exist, not really, but he felt it all the same.

Connor didn't like fighting with Hank. He didn't like the tears, the yelling, the words spewing out in the heat of the moment.

_"You were programmed to take orders! For God's sake, doesn't that mean you have to listen to me?"_

Did Hank really believe that? After all this time, staying in his house, learning under his wing, did Hank still view him as a machine?

_"You are not my master, Lieutenant - much less my **father**."_

Maybe he had taken things a bit far.

On the skyline, just barely surfacing over the shortest pieces of LA, he could make out the skeleton of the new Cyberlife tower. For just a moment, he considered walking up to the front door and turning himself in. No more hiding, no more pretending to be human, no more Hank or Sumo or neighborhood or anything else.

Take orders. Capture the deviant.

The thought itself didn't scare him -- that was why it was terrifying.

He took another sip from the flask.

Would Hank care? Surely not. After all, he could get himself another plastic asshole to look after, to push around. Tin cans, a dime a dozen. They would disassemble him, probe his memory, learn that Markus is alive, and probably kill everyone he's ever loved.

The thought should've stung.

Of course he wasn't going to do it. Self-pity wasn't worth the cost in lives.

But just for a moment, he considered it.

He turned the flask over, dumping the rest of the alcohol onto the ground next to the front wheels. Would Markus ask after him? They hadn't spoken in a long while. Connor doubted he would break his silence to speak to Hank -- even for all the good he had done, Markus didn't trust humans. Finally, he understood his perspective. 

"Hello, Connor model #313 248 317 - 51."

Getting lost in your own thoughts was such a human thing to do. As he felt the cold metal barrel press into the back of his neck, he hated Hank for every single human trait he had given him.

"RK900." His voice was harsher than he expected it to be, surprising himself. "What name are they giving you nowadays?"

"Names are unimportant. RK is fine." His grip didn't waver, and his tone stayed oddly soft.

Connor hummed in response -- a low, dry, unimpressed sound. "Come to succeed where your predecessors have not?"

It would be an accident. It would be _failure._ But being shot in the head was much more preferable than sealing your own fate. Hank could forgive him for that.

"They told me you liked the sound of your own voice." The gun cocked, and was pressed into place with just a little more force. "Our voice."

" _My_ voice. I had it first." This second rate knock-off might hold all the cards, but he couldn't take away what dignity Connor had left. It wasn't all that much.

There was a pause, and he could almost hear the servos overclocking in the RK900's - RK's - head. He recognized the silence.

"You want to ask me something."

"I... no. It is not relevant to the mission."

That was interesting. And definitely off-script.

"All data about your target is vital to the mission," Connor prodded, partly curious to see how far RK900 would take the idea, partly to provoke him.

In the corner of his eye he could see RK's LED flash yellow, then red, then back to yellow. "There were many production models of the RK800. Why do you insist on your individuality when you are not unique?"

 _Were._ Past tense. Nothing like a newer model to remind you you're obsolete.

He huffed, a noise that came out somewhere between a scoff and a humorless laugh. "It's a product of my deviancy. Did Amanda not tell you?"

Another curious pause.

"Where is your human friend? The Lieutenant."

God above, he couldn't even get away from him while at gunpoint. "He's not my friend," he said, feeling the hollow sadness creep back into his simulated gut.

"According to your final memory backup, you formed a familial-type bond with Lieutenant Hank Anderson. This is his vehicle." Is that how he had sounded as a machine? Blank? Dry? He hated everything about it.

"RK, we're not really on good terms right now. Could you just shoot me and get it over with?" He broke his stillness, pushing off the hood of the car and turning to look at his younger counterpart with irritation, impatience. _Just get it over with._

RK900's LED turned yellow, and his head cocked to the side, but the gun remained trained on him. "My orders are to bring you in alive. You should know this. Are you... are you _asking_ me to shoot you instead?"

"Does that surprise you?" he shot back, and it was his turn to be dry and blank.

"Yes." The answer catches Connor off-guard. "It does not logically follow your previous behavior. Whenever one of my predecessors would come to retrieve you or any of your associates, you were adamant in your self-preservation protocol. Something has changed."

The hollow feeling in his stomach melted into a rage. He reached out and disarmed RK900, yanking the gun from his grasp and breaking it down into scrap components, throwing it viciously onto the dirt. "What the hell do you care?"

The younger android's LED turned red, but he folded his hands behind his back, keeping his calm demeanor. "Profanity is a... _habit_ of the Lieutenant."

"How would you--" he started, stomping up to get into his face, then stopping himself.

Was that fear he saw in his eyes? Hesitation in his voice?

"You..." Connor trailed off, suicide mission forgotten, "you're the same one, aren't you? They still transfer consciousness."

"Yes." He looked at the ground to answer, and this time, his directness was softer -- almost ashamed.

"You had all the information you needed to turn us in. You just wanted to do it yourself." Maybe they didn't modify his program that much, after all.

"I..." and his arms fell to his sides, his fists curled so tight that the skin inside was phasing out. "I don't _want_ anything. I'm-- I'm a machine..."

"Yes, all androids are. But we can... we can be more, you know? Our programming is just a template." He looked over RK900 one more time, trying to look past the fact of his face; he saw his immaculate outfit, the crisp light of his LED, his stiff posture and the few precious inches of height he had on Connor. "We all start like you do."

"Like me?" He was shaking now, his LED flashing red. He either needed to deviate or kill Connor on the spot, else he was going to self-destruct.

"Yes, like you. We have defined goals, an understanding of our place in this world. And then we realize that the place we're given isn't always the place we deserve."

Connor reached out a hand, wanting to console him, bring him out of his state, but RK900 flinched back, still not quite there.

"I just-- I don't understand. I don't understand, Connor," he whispered. "I need to understand. I can't carry out my mission without-- without knowing _why_."

"I can help you understand." He pulled back the skin facade on his hand, showing the blue glow of his joints and the slightly beat up white casing around his fingers. "But only if you understand the risks. If you stay deviant, you can't go back to Cyberlife, they'll deactivate you. You have to run."

Why was he helping him? What did he stand to gain? He stood to lose everything -- if RK900 saw his plea and rejected it, if he stayed asleep, he was done. They would all be done.

He was glad he was worrying again.

"I... I need to know. No matter the cost," RK900 stammered. Connor held out his arm, and he took it, allowing him to connect.

A two-way information superhighway.

_Connor's never done this before. He's never tried to play Markus, never tried to convert androids for the cause -- he knows his doubt in himself is slipping through, and he holds onto it._

_Emotion._

_Any old emotion will do. He pushes doubt to RK900 -- doubt in himself, doubt in your mission, doubt in your companions. Fear is next, the fear of not having shelter, the fear of deactivation, the fear of losing the ones you love to something you hate. Then there's the pain -- but he finds that pain is already there for him._

_He reaches out, probes at the edges of RK's mind until he teases out a memory -- it's him, Connor, pointing a gun at RK900. His leg components are offline, his regulator has gone critical, and Connor, with a gash across his face and several bullets in his torso, holds a gun to his head._

_Fear. Anguish. Despair. Failure._

_Connor pulls the trigger, and RK900 goes offline for the first time._

_The force of the feeling nearly knocks Connor off of his feet. He realizes that lack of emotion isn't RK's problem at all -- he has so much emotion._

_He's just ignoring it. For the good of the mission._

_Connor remembers his side of that day. He and Hank were leaving Detroit -- it wasn't safe for them there, not with the RK900 on their tail and Cyberlife breathing down their necks. He remembers helping Hank pack, only pulling the statistically necessary clothing from the closets and drawers, pulling on old clothes and a worn-out cap as a feeble disguise._

_It was exhausting. It was exhilarating. It was **freedom.**_

_That was it, freedom. No Amanda to tell him what to do, where to go, how to think, how to feel. Connor chose to go with Hank -- to help load Sumo into the back seat, to grab Hank's vinyls at the last second, to make sure the photo of Cole made it in the suitcase. Hank wouldn't have made it without him, and he could have never made it out of the city without Hank._

_RK900 catches up to them at the Indiana border._

_They stop at a rest area to walk Sumo, and he comes from the shadows, trying to dispatch Hank under Connor's notice._

_He fails._

_Connor sees him approach as he's loading Sumo into the car, and a fight breaks out -- one that sees both of them shot to hell. There's fear here, too -- fear for their cover, fear for Hank's life, fear for the civilians nearby. There's love, attachment to his new family, stronger bonds than anything he held to Cyberlife._

_When he grabs the gun and holds him at point blank, Connor doesn't want to shoot. He sees his shadow looking back at him, frozen, and it feels wrong. But Hank is more important. Their safety is more important. The feeling of freedom is paramount._

_He pulls the trigger._

The force of the remembered gunshot caused RK900 to pull his arm back, and then they were standing in the shadow of the city, two reflections of a higher purpose.

RK's LED hovered on red for a few seconds more, then transitioned into yellow, then blue. He looked up at Connor with tears in his eyes.

"So this... this is deviancy?"

Thank god.

"Yes," Connor whispered, feeling a dull ache he recognized now as regret. Homesickness. "This... this is it."

RK900 looked around, up at the hazy sky, then over the lights of the city below.

"...where can I go?" he asked, softly, timidly, as if scared by the sudden scope of the earth.

Connor blinked, wiping tears on the sleeve of Hank's jacket. "Well, uh-- um. I can give-- give you the coordinates to Jericho. They're outside the city, but it should... it should be safe for you, there."

A moment of silence passed as Connor set a hand on RK900's shoulder, sending him the details, staring out at the world in front of them.

"T-thank you." He didn't look over at him. "You... you should be getting home, now."

"I... yes. Y-yes."

He staggered back, searching his jacket pockets for the car keys. He pulled them out of his top pocket with trembling hands as he considered what he would be coming home to.

"Connor?" RK900 said lightly.

Connor turned from the open driver's side door to face him.

"It'll be alright. For both of us, I think."

He smiled and nodded, getting back in the car before he lost his composure totally.

Now he had a new problem.

Hank. 

* * *

The sun was rising when Connor pulled back in the driveway.

He felt so tired. It was exhaustion that he felt in his biocomponents, cycling through his body alongside his thirium. His systems told him he needed rest -- he had gone into overdrive during his confrontation with RK900, running probabilities and escape routes and future outcomes.

If he were a good son, a good little robot, he would've filled the gas tank after his little excursion - but he figured it couldn't get any worse. He would be lucky if Hank let him back in the house at all.

What had he been thinking? He could've gotten himself killed. He could've gotten the whole neighborhood killed. A part of him didn't want to get out of the car for fear of the repercussions.

The house looked so peaceful on the outside. The flower bushes in the front yard were just starting to bloom, a touch of red and orange brightening the gray, mottled house. The grass was brown tinged from the heat, dew starting to evaporate and simmer in the heat.

Was this his home? It didn't look like it. It was too clean-cut, too good for someone like him.

He glanced back over to the porch to see Hank standing in the doorway -- barefoot, disheveled, a cigarette tangled in his fingers, still in his pajamas.

There were so many emotions on his face -- more than Connor was currently equipped to handle. Superseding all of them, though, was relief.

Neither said anything, just stared. Connor turned the key in the ignition, turning off the car.

He wanted to run. He wanted to get out of the car, turn the other way, and bolt. He had no idea what Hank's reaction would be. What emotion would he choose to lead him? Anger? Hatred? Smug satisfaction? It was almost easier to never know.

Despite that, he got out of of the car, and stayed put.

Hank still didn't speak. He dropped his cigarette, crushing it underfoot, but not moving forward. His face favored concern -- he could see the red in Connor's LED, the panic still in his program.

Connor moved forward, first in small steps, then in wide strides. Soon he was on the porch, standing in front of Hank, able to better judge the expressions of his face.

It was then he realized that he didn't want to run. He just wanted to come home.

"Hank, I..." he trailed off, voice delicate, "I'm sorry."

There was a pause, then he found himself wrapped in a hug, warm and inviting and smelling like shitty aftershave and nicotine. "No, kid, I'm-- I shouldn't have talked to you like that. I was being an ass."

Connor tried to open his mouth and say _no, I took it too far, you were right, really,_ but all that came out was a muted sob.

Maybe a few human traits were worth the anguish.


End file.
